Pieces of You
by MinP1072
Summary: As you lose the pieces of you to strangers over and over and over, when every last small thing falls away — what makes your shape? Sort of stream-of-consciousness, sort of Lizzington if you squint, but the words wouldn't let me go until I wrote them out. Please be gentle;) (possible trigger warning — self-harm)


She's not sure when it started — the disintegration of her, of Liz, Lizzie, Elizabeth. Earlier than she'd imagined, at first. Before the box (passports money gun lies) came out from under her floor. Before the first whisper (warning taunt), "Be careful of your husband, Lizzie". Was it that first look, "Agent Keen, what a pleasure". (not hers not her) Or maybe it was that one moment, that split second of fresh air on her face before it all began. The cacophony of noises that signaled the beginning of the end of Liz. Not of her life, but of _her_, the end of her (husband home baby father love), the first tiny pieces swept away in a whirl of helicopter blades.

18 months as a profiler, she hears herself say, and wants to laugh, because it's so ridiculous it borders on sublime. 18 months to be stripped, laid bare, laid to waste, opened up and hollowed out and left to rot. Every blacklister, every case, every step, some days, takes another piece, and it's harder and harder to keep herself together. To stop herself from screaming (howling keening gnashing), because she knows if she starts, she'll never stop.

And he's there, always there, always waiting with another twist of the knife. Every time he says her name he unmakes her just a little bit more. And she's so full of words for him (questions demands sadness anger pleas), they all jam up in her throat so that nothing comes out but her rage — bile and disdain. She watches her anger strike like a whip, watches him diminish before the force of her tide, and she hates it, but she needs it. Her anger is like a cloak, like a second skin — he has his armour (suits hats persona flamboyance Red), his shield against the world, but all she has left is her hate to keep her real.

He tells her to stop, to change, to move — the squalid, empty way she's living is filthy, depressing, it will destroy her, and she wants to laugh again (hysteria bubbling up behind the words in her throat), because she's already long gone, and at least this way it's not another lie. She's just a shell (puppet mannequin), and even the one responsible (_is_ he?) can't seem to see it.

It didn't take her long to see that she's no better than any of them (Tom, Jolene, Craig, Reddington — always Reddington), built of lies as much as any blacklister. Then, after Braxton, she knows it's worse than that, emptier, shakier, more brittle than she could ever have imagined, because now she knows even her memories are lies. Even her earliest truths, her purest thoughts, are lies, plants, deposited in her brain by a stranger.

It's our lives that shape us, she thinks, our thoughts, experiences, choices. But when all those things are false, as you lose the pieces of you to strangers over and over and over, when every last small thing falls away — what makes your shape? What's left to tell you what to do, who you are, what makes you _you_ and keeps you from madness (disintegration nothingness)? She can't get a grip, and it feels like a race that she's lost before she even knew how to run, and she can't even breathe sometimes and she doesn't understand why she doesn't just fade away and disappear. 

* * *

It's why she does it, the first time. She's so lost that it defies comprehension. The only pieces she has left are all from different puzzles and they don't match, and even her scar (memory touchstone key) can't anchor her anymore. She's so lost and faded that she wonders if she's even human anymore (was she ever). If the blacklist has taught her anything, after all, it's that anything is possible, any science, any fiction — why not a make-believe Lizzie (puppet mannequin doll construct)?

It's why she does it, the first time. The choking, clawing, need for proof, proof that she's at least a real person, even if nothing else is left. After 18 months of anger, violence, pain, more hospital stays than most people have in a lifetime, she's not afraid. Fear can't touch her, not the one small part of her that can still feel hope. Alone in her bolt hole (he'll never understand why she really stays), she does it, fast, short, not too deep, but enough, oh enough.

And it works. Thank God, she thinks, thank God, it's real, I'm real, there's one piece left at least. At first she feels even emptier, like falling or floating, and she wants to scream because that isn't the truth she wanted. But then she sees it, like a message, like a siren call, her own self, Liz Lizzie Elizabeth, welling up and seeping out, and it's like gravity. She can feel herself again, solid on her feet, anchored in her body. She's real again, human, tangible, no longer just a small, broken thing — and she revels in it.

It's why she does it, again. Every time they take another piece of her (lies secrets violence rage). And it's not like she doesn't understand it, underneath, not like she doesn't know what she's doing. Isn't she an expert in human behaviour, after all? But she's never imagined this kind of desperate need, never knew what it would feel like to lose everything until it (she) was already gone. The only thing that's really left that belongs to her is her body, skin flesh bone blood, blood red — and she doesn't miss the irony there, either. But she can finally breathe again, walk strong, get a grip, she's real real real and no one can take this piece of her away.

It's why she does it, again. Again. Again. She's so alone, but not lonely, not anymore. It's holding her together even as she takes herself apart. She's not floating anymore, and it's like her senses are heightened and everything's so clear. Even her tiny little motel bathroom seems bright and beautiful, and the sounds, the sound of her heart beating, blood rushing, flowing, drip, drip, drip, it sounds like music. Like something she's heard before, but can't quite place, she thinks she'll recognize the tune if she can just listen hard enough. Be still enough. Breathe. Just be still and breathe. 

* * *

It's how he finds her, later. Silent, quiet, still. Breathing softly (thank God, he thinks), and drip, drip, drip. Her eyes are open, but she doesn't see him, she's not there, Lizzie isn't home anymore. He stands for a moment, frozen (shock horror fear), taking her in. The pale light of her skin, broken now in more places than he can immediately count. The splash of her blood beneath her, so red, red like his anger, like his futile rage. And he wants to scream (rant rail storm), slap her back into herself, but instead he just drops to his knees and weeps. For the child she was, for the woman who's lost, for all she might have been without him (them fire blood lies loss).

It's why he takes her, to make her safe. Wraps her in the sleazy motel quilt (it's all he has), and takes her out of the sad little room in the miserable little motel, and drives away. Drives and drives and drives, until they're somewhere quiet and lovely and safe. (Maybe safe, hopefully safe.) As he lays her down, he promises, swears to her, he'll make her whole again, he'll help her find all the pieces and remake her, whatever it takes. He'll spend the rest of his life, if he has to, making her whole, so she can live, laugh, be, just be, be Lizzie, again.

But oh, the marks on her skin, like poetry, like a tragedy, like a song he used to know, but he can't recall the tune. He's awash with love for her as he cleans her, wipes away the red, soothes, gentles, wraps her wounds. And her body is there, it breathes in and out, it will heal and be whole, but still empty, so empty. She's still gone, not asleep, not awake, just gone, and he has to find her, but how? He can't hear what she hears, can't follow where she leads, all he has is his own monstrous sorrow (guilt fear horror rage) pounding inside his head as he washes her clean. And he's calm now, as he wraps her in white, as he loves her with everything he is, as he worships the woman who is lost.

And he waits waits waits for her to come home.


End file.
